


Fidelis

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Collars, Consent Issues, D/s, M/M, Mention of torture, Relationship Negotiation, Season/Series 04, Stalking, Under-negotiated Kink, ablism, past Harold/Grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5746204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the ruins of the library, John finds something unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fidelis

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to Toft for helping me see how to rip this apart and put it back together better, and to violentdaylight and Morin for their cheerleading and support throughout. <333
> 
> The stalking in the tags refers both to a number and to Harold's behavior towards Grace. Um. He gets better?

“The key to a community is the social contract,” says the man on the stage. His jacket swishes as he paces and turns, gesticulating at his presentation. “Now, for the most part, there’s not really a set of explicit rules: you go into a group of people and figure out what’s the,” he air-quotes, “done thing.”

John watches from the back of the room. Barry Stein is a good lecturer: John wasn’t expecting to keep up with a keynote speech about social matching algorithms, and yet.

“Making these rules explicit is one possibility, yeah,” Stein says, responding to an audience question. “But, one, most people can’t, and two, trying to makes people uncomfortable. For a good reason: rules can be broken. If you know exactly what people expect you to do, doing the opposite can hurt them significantly. And, third, somebody signing on to a community’s code of conduct doesn’t mean they’ll abide by it.

“What our algorithm does, basically,” Stein clicks to the next slide in his presentation, revealing a company logo and a stock photo of happy people at a computer, “is find people who believe in the same unspoken rules you do. As implied by _unspoken_ , we don’t ask about them, but figure them out from the way a user acts while in the common social area.”

Another participant raises their hands. “What about privacy?”

“What’s a little privacy between friends?” Stein laughs. It’s a warm sound, compelling. “It’s actually not an issue,” he continues, still smiling. “The rules are pretty abstract - there’s correlation with geography and other factors, but it’s far from conclusive. At any rate, there’s no way to access the rules themselves - they’re all stored inside our servers in nonreadable forms. For machine eyes only.” The audience titters.

John waits for the lecture to end, for the audience to filter out. He catches Stein before he leaves. “Mr. Stein? John Riley, NYPD.” He flashes his badge.

Stein looks first surprised, then dismayed. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me….”

“I’m afraid you’re in violation of your restraining order,” John says. Technically, it was Harold who sent him here today, not the department, but if John has a simple way to solve a number, he’ll take it.

“Oh, for—” Stein’s jaw clenches. “Last thing I heard,” he says tightly, “Carol was in _Iowa_. I’ve been booked to give this speech for months. I thought the whole point of a restraining order was to _keep_ me from knowing where she is and what she’s doing?”

John doesn’t really have a response to that. He keeps his expression neutral.

"I get it," Stein says, eyes suddenly weary. "You're looking out for her. You wouldn't believe me if I told you I'm glad, would you? But I am." He sighs. “Can I at least say goodbye to people before grabbing my things?”

John shrugs and watches Stein go. He takes out his phone, frowns, taps at his earpiece. “Finch? I can’t get into his phone.”

“I’m not surprised,” Finch says, keys clicking furiously. “Before his current work in WeConnect, Stein was the CTO of Impenetrable. He developed state of the art information security systems for a living.”

John can work with that. “Time to do things the old fashioned way,” he says, walking to the staircase. “Any luck on Carol?”

“Ms. Hernandez,” Harold says, “was a software architect for Impenetrable until filing the restraining order.”

“So, no.” John takes the stairs two at a time, keeping a steady pace. “Any idea what she’s doing away from Iowa?”

He reaches Stein’s floor. He leans against the wall and watches Stein’s room, blinking when the door opens and a small, mousy woman hurries out, something clutched tightly in her hands. “Finch?” he says softly into his earpiece. “I think I know what Carol is doing in town.”

Before John can reach her, the elevator door dings open. Carol pales and vanishes around the corner. Stein leaves the elevator surrounded by a gaggle of tech groupies. The small mob lingers in the hall, and by the time John goes back down the stairs, there’s no trace left of Carol.

John lets out a frustrated breath. “You can’t hack across their defenses, can you?”

Harold hums. “Actually….”

~~

According to Harold, the crack he wrote for Impenetrable’s software is on a hard drive they left behind when they went on the run. It takes John back to the ruins of the library, set him digging methodically, upturning every metaphorical rock that Samaritan's people haven't.

In his search, John comes across mostly ruined old books, the burnt out corpses of computers. He pauses over a glint of silver: one of Finch's cufflinks. He hesitates before picking it up and sliding it into his pocket.

In doing that, John pushes— something; a section of floor like any other, except this one makes the splintered wood creak alarmingly, and then the wall comes open.

The opening isn't large. About normal sized for a small safe. There's no safe inside, though: only a flat wooden box.

John picks it up, turning it around. There's something sliding inside. The box itself is beautiful, the wood glossy under the thick cover of dust it's gathered, closed with an intricate silver catch. It opens easily, and inside....

A length of black leather, two fingers thick, too short to be a belt. Silver buckle with a D-ring in the back. There's a silver tag hanging from the front, engraved _Fidelis_. The leather is incredibly supple and soft: it feels almost like fabric in John's hands, the way it bends effortlessly, except for the solid weight of it.

For a moment, John sees double: his own hands overlaid with Harold’s, gripping the collar securely. Then he imagines Harold taking a step forward, smiling down at a kneeling form, murmuring, “Here, may I?”

The image is so vivid that John raises one hand up to his throat, half surprised not to find leather under his fingers. He tucks the collar under his jacket and heads back to Riley's apartment, heart beating fast in his throat. He can't remember what he was trying to find.

~~

Beside the _Fidelis_ , the tag has a number on it, almost impossible to detect. The box has a name on the inner side, hidden under the padding: _Carreford Artisanship_.

A quick Google search brings John to their online store. If he'd thought Harold had intended the box's contents for Bear, the site would've disabused him of the notion. It's all tasteful footage of smiling men and women in leather collars. Many of them are kneeling. John stops in front of one photo, which has a man standing in parade rest behind a seated woman in an expensive dress. She has the lead of a leash in her hand. Even unsmiling, she manages to radiate satisfaction.

More importantly, the shop has a number. John calls.

"I've had one of your collars for a while," he tells the helpful woman who answers, "and the buckle broke - can you fix it?"

"Of course," the woman says. "We offer a lifetime guarantee. If you could just give us the number on the tag...."

John does.

There's clicking on the other side. Then the woman says, "Yes, I see. What's your address?"

"Don't you have that on file?" John says, temporising.

Apologetically, the woman says, "We don't keep records for longer than three years."

In the darkness of his apartment, John blinks, and exhales. "Thank you, that won't be necessary."

Just as she hangs up, he blurts, "Wait!"

"Sir?"

"Um. Can you tell me the exact date of the purchase? For, uh, tax reasons."

After a short hesitation, she says, "September 20th, 2011. Will that be all?"

"Thank you." She hangs up. John stays frozen in position for a long few moments before snapping out of it.

Harold bought this on the day he explained the Machine to John. If he got this for someone he was dating at the time, that would be one hell of a coincidence.

He reaches to put the collar on his throat. He can fit it against his skin, but when he tries to close the buckle, his hands shake too much. He puts it down and brings out a shoelace.

If John's impromptu measurements are to be trusted, the collar would fit him perfectly.

John believes in coincidences just fine, but he has a feeling coincidences don't believe in Harold. He puts the collar back in the box and shoves it under his bed. He doesn't sleep well that night.

“We’re in luck, Mr. Reese,” Harold says in John’s ear. He steps away from his desk, smiling at Fusco. “Ms. Hernandez isn’t using Impenetrable brand security, but an older IFT product.”

“And you hacked it?” The tone comes to him automatically, the sly fishing-for-information approach he takes with Harold. 

If it rings a little false, Harold doesn’t seem to notice. Censoriously, he says, “Mr. Reese, I built it.”

“Handy.” John gets on his motorcycle. “So do we have GPS on her?”

~~

Hernandez is staying downtown, “With her sister,” Harold says. “She arrived two days ago.”

“Just in time for the convention.” John parks his motorcycle and finds a good spot to loiter without being conspicuous. “What else do we know about her?”

“Ms. Hernandez started working for Impenetrable at nineteen,” Harold says. “She has little formal education, and her family was poor, growing up. According to Mr. Stein, he handpicked Ms. Hernandez for her skill.”

From his vantage point, John can see inside the apartment where Hernandez is staying. She’s sitting on the sofa, hunched over a computer, staring at the screen. “What’s her employment record like?”

“Apart from Impenetrable, it’s nonexistent,” Harold says. “If you can get into the apartment, I’d like to get a look at the contents of her computer. I’m sure there’ll be something of interest there.”

Though neither of them is saying it, John’s pretty sure they’re both thinking it: who’s victim and who’s perpetrator is never a safe bet.

~~

At the end of the day, John sits on his bed and thinks about rules, explicit and implied. Then he activates his earpiece. "Harold. You there?"

The answer is prompt. "Always, Mr. Reese."

"What'd you think of of Mr. Stein?"

"Can’t say I approve of his approach to privacy," Harold says. 

Knowing Harold can’t see him means John can roll his eyes. "I thought you might feel some sympathy," he says lightly. "Similar line of work, helping someone out when they had nothing...."

“Our work is hardly _similar_ ,” Harold says. John grins at the annoyance in his voice, despite everything. “A life at risk justifies a lot more than mere profit.”

John lets it hang in the air for a few seconds. Then he smoothly says, "Of course it does. Good night, Harold."

"Good night, Mr. Reese."

John leans back. There's a crack on the ceiling: he's memorized the pattern of it during sleepless nights. The familiarity of it is comforting, by now.

Rules. Harold’s made a set of them for John to follow, few and simple enough. John broke them even so, squeezing a trigger in cold blood: he might not have killed Quinn, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. He had his justifications, but the fact remains that there isn’t a law on Earth John hasn’t disobeyed at one time or another. Maybe, after the Army and the CIA failed, Harold managed to think of a way to finally bring him to heel. A neutralization only slightly less thorough than a bullet to the head.

Harold's hands would have been steady, putting the collar around John's neck. Harold would have been patient and exacting in explaining what John's duties would be now. John can imagine some of them. He's good on his knees.

Physically, Harold is no match for John. It doesn't matter. Harold wouldn't have needed to lift a finger. Hell, he wouldn't have needed to raise his voice. Just ask, calmly and dispassionately. John would've fallen over himself to obey.

He wonders whether Harold would've taken the collar off when John had to go take care of numbers. Whether he'd button John's shirt all the way up, do it with his own hands so nobody saw the mark he'd left on John. Or maybe he'd let John's shirt hang open, let anybody see that John was owned.

Or maybe he'd never let John leave the library at all.

John's distantly aware that his own breathing is hitching, his heart beating wildly out of control.

Harold might have kept John (on his back) (on his _knees_ ) in some dark room at the back of the library, never seeing a soul beside Harold. The world would turn away on its axis, numbers coming and going without John having any idea, any thought in his head beside doing what Harold told him.

There would be no place to go. Even if John had the motivation to leave, there's nowhere he could have gone that Harold wouldn't have found him. There was nobody to miss John if he disappeared. Would disappearing have even been so bad?

He would have done exactly what Harold wanted, and maybe Harold would take John's face in his hands, say, "Well done, Mr. Reese," in that emphatic way of his. "Well done, John, my good boy."

John grabs himself desperately, screwing his eyes shut as he comes in his pants. His breath echoes loudly in the small room. He sounds to himself like a hunted animal.

~~

Halfway through his morning routine at work, his earpiece buzzes. “I’ve gained access to Ms. Hernandez’s files,” Finch says. ”You need to find Mr. Stein.” 

Apparently, Hernandez has a motherlode of blackmail material on Stein’s partners in WeConnect, all of it uploaded in the last day. “Think that’s what she took from his room?” John asks Harold.

“Possibly.” Harold sounds troubled. “Mr. Stein is still at the convention: there were photos of him there uploaded to twitter only a few moments ago. Wasn’t he supposed to leave town?”

“ _Supposed_ is such a tricky word,” John says, parking his motorcycle. 

True to Harold’s intel, Stein is in the hotel lobby, gesticulating animatedly in the middle of a crowd. He frowns slightly when he spots John, and leaves his audience to face him. “Detective Riley. Can I help you?”

“You can stop violating the bounds of your restraining order,” John says mildly.

Stein grimaces and sighs. “Look, okay, I realize this looks bad.” John keeps his face impassive. “It’s just— okay, can I tell you something?”

John inclines his head slightly. “Sure.”

Stein darts furtive glances around them. “Not a lot of people know this, but.” He licks his lips. “Carol is mentally ill. I fucked things up with her, yeah, I take responsibility for that. But she doesn’t have anyone else: she didn’t have anything when I met her, no standing, no friends, nothing. It can make a guy protective, you know? I worry about her. She hasn’t been able to keep down a job since she left Impenetrable; I would’ve helped, but,” Stein gives an awkward little laugh, spreading his hands, “you know, restraining order.”

John considers, gears shifting in his mind. “You seem to care a lot about her.”

In his ear, Harold sharply says, “Seeming to care is not the same as actually caring, Mr. Reese.” John ignores him, keeping his attention on Stein. 

“I do,” Stein says, voice low. He hesitates, then adds, “Will you help me, Detective?”

John keeps his body language wary but receptive, willing to be convinced. “What kind of help are you asking for?”

Stein swallows. “Two more days, just until the convention is over. That’s all I need. Please?” He sags with relief at John’s curt nod.

As John leaves, he turns on the earpiece. “We got Hernandez’s number,” he says. “Not his. The Machine probably isn’t out to protect him from blackmail. Maybe there’s another threat we’ve missed.”

For a long time, Harold is silent. Just before John gets on his bike, Harold says, “As you think best, Mr. Reese,” and cuts the line.

~~

That night he gives in, takes the collar out of its hiding place. John does breathing exercises until he can hold the leather band without his hands shaking. He puts it on quickly.

The fit is good. Snug. John can just fit two fingers between the band and his skin. He pulls a little, feels the way it moves his head. He straightens back up and eyes himself critically. There would've been no way to hide this under the shirts he wore as the Man in the Suit.

The D-ring glints. A small padlock could fit right through it, or a narrow metal chain, keeping John tethered like a vicious dog.

John wants to say he never bit a hand that fed him, but Mark Snow would beg to differ.

On the company's website most collars had matching cuffs. Padded, comfortable ones that didn't cut circulation. John takes his service metal cuffs out, closing them around one wrist. The bite of the metal is familiar.

So is the tenting of his pants, but the combination is a little startling.

John goes to his hands and knees on the bed, holding on to the headboard. He can't touch himself like this, and he can't decide if he's relieved or frustrated. He doesn't know how much of the pounding of his heart is lust and how much is terror. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the wall.

He whispers, "Please," and doesn't know what he's asking for.

His earpiece comes to life with a shush of static. "Mr. Reese?"

John stays silent.

"Mr. Reese, are you alright?"

Eyes still closed, John says, "I don't know."

There's a bustling noise on the other side. Grimly, Harold says, "Where are you?"

John's eyes fly open. He wills his breathing to even out. "Never mind, Harold. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Harold sounds like he's still preparing to go.

Out of some hidden reserve, John summons a casual tone. "Definitely. Talk to me when there's news about the number."

"If you're certain." Harold sounds dubious, but he lets it go. Right now, that’s all John can ask.

~~

Detective Kaplan hovers near John's desk with the air of a puppy hopefully holding a stick between his teeth. "Riley! You're coming out for drinks with us, right?"

John holds off answering for a beat too long. Kaplan's face falls. He's a nice kid, just made detective. John puts on a smile. "I don't know, all this paperwork won't do itself."

In his earpiece, Harold reprovingly says, "Socialization is very important, both for your cover and your mental health."

John refrains from either rolling his eyes or calling Finch a huge hypocrite. "But you know what, sure."

Kaplan's face lights up. John has to admit Harold might have a point. A night with the guys, drinking a beer and gossiping, might be just the thing to get him out of his latest mental rut.

An hour later, Kaplan is gesticulating broadly while telling some story about a jewelry thief and an elderly shop owner that John can't follow. This isn't because of Kaplan, who's a decent conversationalist, but because John can't shake the mental image of kneeling on the floor with his arms tied above his head.

It's half-based in memory, a mission in Bratislava gone pear-shaped. But where in reality he'd been kept in a filthy basement, John imagines himself kneeling on the floor in the library; the basement had been cold and dark, but the library in his mind is dimly lit and warm.

The dryness in his mouth is true to memory, but the cause is different, as is the result. He imagines Harold standing in front of him, Harold's nimble fingers undoing his fly one button at a time.

In reality, they'd shoved his head into a bucket of foul water. He'd thrown up afterwards, and they'd laughed. Harold wouldn't laugh.

A sound penetrates John's reverie. It takes him a moment to place it: not from the bar, or his colleagues. The earpiece. John weaves his way outside, murmuring something about fresh air. He winds up in the alley behind the bar, giving his surroundings a cursory look before touching his ear and asking, "Finch, are you okay?"

It's Harold's turn to take a little too long before answering. "Perfectly, yes," he says, clearing his throat.

Maybe he is, but John is tired of this bar anyway. He says, "Okay," already heading for his motorcycle.

~~

"There's really no need for you to be here," Harold says, but he locked his screen as soon as John entered, and the rhythm of his breaths is all wrong: too carefully even, the way Harold breathes right before reaching for painkillers. His movements don't indicate his injuries acting up, though.

John crouches in front of his chair. "Harold," he says, a soft request. "Talk to me."

Harold swallows. Then he slouches a bit, resigned. "I suppose I wanted you to know." He unlocks the screen, and John has a moment of vertigo before realizing that it's Grace he's seeing, lightly frowning in concentration.

"She's composing an email to her employer," Harold says, subdued. "In a way, this is to your credit, with your recent observations about my similarities to Stein."

John stares. On the screen, Grace bites her lower lip. There's a steaming mug of tea next to her wrist. “We still don’t know if Stein is the perpetrator.”

"Don’t we?" Harold's eyes are on Grace, hungry and sad. "Even so, once the comparison was made, I couldn't stop thinking about it."

"You're not—" John struggles for words. "Whatever Stein did to Hernandez, you’re nothing like that. Grace is safe. You're not hurting her."

"Perhaps not," Harold says. His voice is quiet and almost devoid of emotion. "But I am caging her; I have been for some time, though I just realized it.

"No," he says as John opens his mouth. "You don't understand. Grace has considered a change of careers several times, as well as physical relocation. Each time I arranged matters so it would be more convenient for her to stay a solitary artist, a resident of New York." He closes his eyes. His next words come in a whisper: "I only meant to keep her safe."

"Maybe if I'd done the same for Jessica she'd be alive now," John says.

Harold's eyes open, focused on John. "That," he says, "is an entirely different situation. Jessica asked for your help." He exhales. "At any rate, imprisoning people for their own safety is the kind of thinking that creates tyranny." His hands clench and flutter. "I never meant to be like this."

The plea in his voice is unbearable. "Then let me do it."

Harold blinks at him.

"Let me monitor her." Without meaning to, John's voice slips into the register he uses to convince marks. "For risks. It's my job, Harold. I won't change anything in her life. If I see her in danger, I'll make sure it goes away. You won't have to do anything."

Harold's mouth presses, his whole body moving almost imperceptibly towards John. Then he sags. "Thank you. But no." He turns to the keyboard. A click of keys, and the window displaying Grace's face winks out. "The Machine will give us her number in the case of anything premeditated. In any other eventuality...." Harold shudders briefly.

"She doesn't go out much," John says. "Nobody would want to hurt her." It's shitty consolation and he knows it, but it seems to give Harold comfort.

"Let us hope." He turns to the screen. In another moment, lines of code fill it. "Forgive me, Mr. Reese, but I'd like to be alone right now."

~~

That night, John lies in bed and thinks of Finch ordering the collar with the same closed-mouthed determination he used to terminate his last connection with Grace.

As a way of refraining from contacting her, maybe, giving himself a more immediate, less complicated release. John could've done that, served as Harold's pressure valve. Everyone needs to let loose after a mission sometimes. Sex is a good way of doing it.

 _Or_.

A thought intrudes like cold water running down his spine. Finch buying the collar, putting it away, taking it out to look at it in a fucked-up variation on self-flagellation, asking himself if that's the kind of person he wants to be. He might have bought something tawdry or disgusting, a choke chain, but Finch knows himself. He wouldn't pull his own punches: he'd acknowledge the thin line between good and evil. He'd very deliberately entertain fantasies very like the ones John has been thinking up, but for Finch they would be straight-up horror, all the worse for being compelling.

Maybe for the first time since he found the collar, John doesn't feel even a glimmer of desire. He takes a long time to fall asleep.

~~

Working for Harold, John stopped crimes before they happened. He didn't always succeed, but there was always a chance. As a cop, by definition he can only act once the crime is committed. Some days, that's still better than inaction.

Some days, it's worse.

The victim's name was Jackson O'Reilly. "Just turned twenty-one," Kaplan says, opening O'Reilly's wallet to look at his driver's license. "Hell of a birthday gift."

They're in an alley behind a dive bar. Forensics have come and gone, leaving a neat chalk outline. It's curled in a fetal position.

Neither the bartender nor the owner remember anything. From the hard glint in their eyes, John is pretty sure forgetting is their idea of professional behavior. There are no security cameras close enough to get footage. No way to know who was in the bar the night before.

"We should look at his phone," Kaplan says, but his shoulders sag. They both know it's hopeless.

John goes through the rest of the day on autopilot, mechanically interacting with people. If the guys at the precinct notice, none of them say anything. He goes home protected by some fragile sense of stillness, like he's immersed in a stagnant little pond where none of the open ocean's horrors can intrude.

Blanketed by the fog in his mind, it's easy to go to the hiding place where he keeps the collar and put it on. Then John lies on his bed and stares up at the ceiling, thinking about nothing at all.

Somewhere around dark o'clock, John’s phone rings, loud in the quiet of the apartment. A few minutes after, an anxious, “Mr. Reese?” comes in through his earpiece.

“Harold.” The name feels good on his tongue, feels right.

“Mr. Reese.” Harold’s voice is slowed down; John can just picture the frown that’s probably on his face. “Are you all right?”

John stares at the ceiling. He has no fucking idea how to respond to that. He feels his breath moving in and out of his lungs, rasping.

“I’m coming over,” Harold says, and this time John doesn’t say anything to stop him.

~~

Harold’s there in the blink of an eye, or so it feels. John vaguely hopes he was careful on the road.

“Mr. Reese, what—” A step away from him, Harold stops and swallows audibly. “Oh.”

Yeah, _oh_ sounds about right. John blinks up at Harold. There are tiny creases at the corners of his eyes, made deeper by his concerned expression. He makes an abortive gesture for John. “So you did find something in the library.” A silent moment passes, and Harold says, “I’ll rephrase that as a question. John, did you find that collar in the library?” There’s something about his voice that John can’t put his finger on.

Whatever it is, it makes answering easy. “Yes.” He tacks on a, “Sir,” just to be sure.

“No need for _sir_. _Harold_ will suffice.” There’s a shift in Harold’s expression that John knows well, the one where Harold visibly overrides his first reaction to something surprising with a more thoughtful response. “You’ve had a bad day, haven’t you, John? You don’t have to speak, a nod or a head shake are enough.”

Just as well. John can’t really talk: there’s an immovable lump in his throat all of a sudden. He nods.

The look Harold gets then is also deeply familiar: the specific and terrifying brand of compassion Harold favors, which allows no flaw to be hidden or excused, but understands them all the same, separates them into issues to be fixed and system properties to be worked with. “You must have needed very badly to let go,” Harold says, and touches his fingers to the collar.

John jerks as though somebody sent a high voltage current through him. There was one job where they left him strung to a roof during a lightning storm. John wasn’t actually struck, but he’d felt the crackle of electricity in the air, on his face. Harold’s proximity feels a bit like that, except for John’s vivid, urgent wish that Harold _would_ strike him. That, at least, would be something comprehensible.

Harold doesn’t hit him. He moves his hand a little bit upward, so that it rests just under John’s jaw. “You couldn’t help Mr. O’Reily.” His voice is low, resonating in John’s bones. “I wish there was something we could have done.”

There wasn’t, but Harold doesn’t bother adding that. They both know it already. Even so, the lack of the reminder is unsettling. “Don’t,” he tells Harold— _begs_ Harold, to be honest.

Harold strokes John’s face, his expression complicated, kindness and sorrow and Harold’s keen intelligence underlying it all, like he wants nothing better than to take John apart and put him back together, stronger and better. “What are you saying no to, John?” There’s no judgment in his voice, only interest.

John whimpers and surges up into Harold’s hands. He closes his eyes in sheer self-defense, but that leaves him with no choice but to feel Harold’s hands on his skin, touching him with assurance. Harold doesn’t undress him, doesn’t even venture bellow the collarbone. He puts his cool hand on John’s cheek, and John bites his lip to keep from sobbing.

The actual words Harold is saying barely register, some mix of, “I know,” and, “Hush,” and “You’re alright, I have you, you’re alright.” John doesn’t try too hard to listen. He lets himself get lost in the familiar cadence of them, hangs on to Harold’s voice like a lifeline, keeping him tethered and not letting him float away.

One word rings out clearly. “Rest,” Harold tells him. It’s more than an order: it’s a request, and John can’t tell Harold no. “Sleep,” Harold says, so John does.

~~

Harold's still there when John wakes up. He seems tired, but not in pain, the way he would if he spent the entire night in a chair. He raises his eyes at John and tells him, "Go about your morning routine as though I'm not here, but please set aside fifteen minutes before you go."

John dresses, brushes his teeth and shaves mechanically. He'll grab a coffee and a danish of the cart at the precinct. At 07:15, he stands in front of Harold, who stands up and takes off the collar. John's hand rises without his bidding to touch his neck, feeling for bruises. There aren't any.

Harold asks, "How are you feeling?"

John takes a moment to answer this. "Good," he says, blinking.

Now that John's paying attention, he can see small hints of worry in Harold's expression, in the angle of his eyebrows and his mouth. But Harold simply says, "I'm glad to hear that. Is there anything you need?"

Therapy, probably, or barring that, a healthy dose of repression. “What were you calling about?”

Harold’s mouth compresses for a moment. “Nothing currently relevant,” he says. “Though you should know that Ms. Shaw retrieved the hard drive containing my crack for the Impenetrable firewall; it’s now at work.”

John nods. That’s good. He can feel himself easing slowly back into the rhythm of his life, the world tangible around him again. “Call me when there’s news.”

“I will.” Harold hesitates, then presses on. “We should discuss this.” He gestures at the collar, which he’s still holding. 

“I’ll come to the station once I’m done at the precinct,” John says. He wonders if Harold will overrule him, suggest Whistler’s apartment or one of their safehouses: someplace more intimate.

Harold just thanks him and gets, creakily, to his feet.

~~

Despite everything, John finds himself feeling sharper, alert; the day zips by in a productive blur.

At seven PM, Moreno stops by his desk. "Stop dicking with the paperwork and go home," she tells John blutly. "There's nothing urgent. Take a night off."

John doesn't let himself stall any longer. He takes his jacket and goes to see Harold.

Of everything John thought might greet him at the station, he wasn't expecting paperwork.

"Did you print those on the department printer?" John murmurs, leafing through the sheets Harold placed on the table in front of him. They're thorough, beginning with the innocuous - apparently some people are averse to kissing - and continuing with terms John's never even heard.

"They're meant to be a jumping point to discussion," Harold says, a little stiffly. "I hardly mean to put the collar on you and go to town."

John, in fact, figured that was exactly what would happen, so forgive him for being a little lost. "You want to..." he picks an item off the list at random, "do abrasion?" He's not certain what that means. Possibly sandpaper is involved.

"Not particularly, though if you are, we can discuss that," Harold says. "Obviously the specific activities aren't the issue, but the effect one accomplishes with them. Certain physical sensations, certainly, but also emotional: a scene may be constructed to frighten the submissive, for example, and help him conquer his fear, or face catharsis in its inevitability. How this is achieved depends on the particular fears of the submissive, and the ways in which the dominant can affect threat."

John blinks several times. He wordlessly spreads his hands.

"I hardly expect you to give me this kind of analysis," Harold says dryly. "Not to underestimate your talents, of course, but introspection isn't among them. Hence, the list."

"The list," John echos. He picks up the paper, not really seeing the words. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes.” Harold’s tone makes John look up. Harold’s expression is deathly serious. “This isn’t an area where I’m comfortable improvising, Mr. Reese.”

John’s heart was pounding since he walked in: easy enough to translate into fury, if he has to. “No, you don’t,” he says silkily. “You plan very, very far in advance, don’t you?”

Harold goes pale. He doesn’t answer.

Right now, it doesn’t matter which of John’s myriad scenarios was the truth. He’ll take any of them, all of them, for Harold to put his hands on John again, for the way Harold made the weight of the world vanish with a few words and touches. John reaches for Harold. “So don’t improvise,” he says, voice soft. “You must have had something in mind. You think there’s anything you can ask of me that I won’t do?”

Harold's eyebrows rise. " _Anything_ is an awfully broad word, Mr. Reese."

John keeps his eyes on Harold, who's not the only one in the room who can make observations. Whatever Harold says, a collar does have certain implications, and John doesn't miss the helplessly greedy way Harold surveys John's form, his face. It warms something in John's stomach, makes him want to thrust out his chest, show off. "I mean it." 

He does. John's run into a lot of weird shit in his life, sex and torture and the places where the two blur together. Pain, humiliation, bodily fluids - he can't think of a single thing he wouldn't do right now, if Harold asked.

Harold's mouth tightens. He takes something out of a desk drawer: an x-acto knife.

John watches, calm and curious. He's certain down to his bones that Harold doesn't want to carve him up, definitely not enough that John would object.

Harold hands him the knife, shows John his open palm, and says, "Cut me deep enough to draw blood."

John stares.

There's a thin scar on that hand already, almost invisible, about two years old. John's hand tightens on the knife, fighting to steady his grip. He breathes. He tries to raise his hand, the movement jerky. The knife makes soft clicking noises as John slides the blade out, and each one feels like being stabbed in the gut.

"All right," Harold says, softly, and takes the knife away. "I think that illustrated my point well enough."

John's legs don't quite feel steady enough to support him. He gets up anyway, his hands hanging in a limp awkward way that reminds him of the aftermath of being tied up for interrogation.

Harold's got shadows under his eyes, his face too blank, as though he's afraid of what might show if he lets the mask crack. "I didn't give up being Grace's jailer to become yours, Mr. Reese." He rubs his forehead.

John doesn't need Harold to tell him to get out. He leaves on his own.

~~

Of all the scenarios John considered since he found the collar, having it taken away wasn't the one he thought would happen. It leaves him hanging in an awkward sort of limbo: he keeps reaching up for the earpiece to stop halfway.

If Harold is feeling the same way, John has no indication of it. Just before John’s lunch break, the comm crackles to life. “Get to Ms. Hernandez,” Harold says, urgently. “We had it all wrong.”

He fills John in on the details as John speeds through the streets of New York. “WeConnect’s algorithm is not half as much of a black box as Mr. Stein would have everyone believe,” Harold says, sounding as close to outraged as he gets. “His data analysis returns locations, employment details: Hernandez’s files were evidence of material he’d prepared on his business partners, not to mention her. He’d contacted all of her employers and convinced them to terminate her contract, often citing her supposed mental illness.”

“So much for caring.” The words are ash in John’s mouth.

If Harold blames him for misreading the situation, he doesn’t say anything about that, either. “That isn’t the worst part of the situation.”

“Don’t tell me. Stein planted a bomb somewhere?”

“No,” Harold says, testy. “But he does have a gun, is that dangerous enough for you?”

Stein is an amateur. Gun or no gun, so long as John gets to him in time, there’s nothing there he can’t deal with. “I’ll be there in five minutes. Wish me luck.” He doesn’t think about the words until they’re out of his mouth, automatic.

“Good luck,” Harold says, and it doesn’t sound automatic at all.

John keeps his eyes on traffic and hits the gas as hard as he can.

~~

Hernandez is still in her sister’s apartment. Thankfully, the sister is away at work. John runs up the stairs, listening to Hernandez on the link Finch patched through her cracked phone.

“This isn’t love.” Hernandez’s voice is low, cracking. “You can tell yourself whatever you want, but you don’t love me, or you’d listen when I asked you to leave me alone.”

“God, are you even listening to yourself?” Stein just barely sounds like the man John met at the convention. He spits out the words. “You wouldn’t know love if it punched you in the face. I run after you like a dog and you don’t even care, God, it makes me want to—”

By Hernandez’s gasp, John guesses Stein pulled out the weapon. He runs faster.

“Just say the word, Carol.” Stein is growling now, words barely coherent over the fuzzy connection. “Say you don’t love me and I’ll blow my brains out right over your sister’s curtains.”

Before Carol can answer, John charges through the door. “I’d drop this gun if I were you,” he tells Stein.

The speed with which Stein’s expression de-contorts itself into amicability would be shocking if John had never met his type before. “Detective,” he says. “I suppose you believe I was defending myself.” He drops the gun, though, which is something.

Especially since Stein had it aimed at Carol, not himself. John wishes he were surprised.

“Yeah, tell it to the judge.” John has him cuffed in seconds, turning him around smartly.

“I really was,” Stein says, and the hell of it is, he sounds sincere. “It’s not her fault, but she was hurting me, and I had to make it stop.”

“You don’t know the first thing about hurting.” Carol’s voice is steadier than John would’ve expected. “But you’re going to. Even if you get out of prison this time, WeConnect is going to sue the pants off of you.” She spits on the floor near Stein’s legs. “You’re not going to have a lot of friends now they realize you can do to them what you did to me.”

John claps a hand over Stein’s mouth to muffle his curses. Stein is going to jail; if the judge doesn’t cooperate, it doesn’t have to be an American jail. John’s disposed of his like before. He’s not going to waste any more breath on him.

~~

Handing Stein to processing is anticlimactic. John debates going back to his desk to do paperwork, kill time, but by the time Stein is off his hands it’s late enough to call it a day.

The station is empty when John reaches it. He sits down and misses the library. Things had seemed a lot simpler back then.

It’s getting late. John is debating leaving to get something to eat when Harold finally arrives. “Mr. Reese,” he says, blankly. “Is there a problem?”

“You’re not like Stein.” Whatever else happens, he can’t stand Harold not knowing that. “You’re nothing like him.”

Harold squares his shoulders, meeting John’s narrowed eyes without flinching. “Thank you for that character judgment, Mr. Reese.”

It’s a tactical error, because it lets John say, “Are you saying I’m not qualified to make that decision?” He mentally dares Harold to say yes, dares him to so much as hint that the collar wasn’t meant for John, that it didn’t signify what they both know it does.

Harold’s mouth opens and closes. He sags, almost collapsing into his chair. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

An explanation isn’t really what John’s after, but he’ll take it. He continues watching Harold.

Harold hesitates. Then his expression firms. He takes a deep breath. "It was something in the nature of a bet with myself. And, to tell the truth, an incentive of sorts."

He's not making a lot of sense to John, but John's okay waiting. He nods at Harold to go on.

"I thought," Harold's fingers twitch in his lap, "that there might come a time when you would be willing - happy, even - to accept such a gift from me. I fully acknowledged that this might not ever be the case. That was the bet, you see."

John parses this. "You thought you'd make me into someone who'd want your collar?"

"No!" Harold stiffens, looking distressed. "No," he repeats, in a calmer tone. "My skill as a character judge is admittedly flawed, but I strive to improve it. The only way to know for a fact whether I have judged correctly is to state ahead of time what I predict the end result to be, and see whether empiric evidence matches up."

Once John strips that sentence into component parts, it makes slightly more sense. "You made a bet with yourself that I'd take a collar from you." It's a very Finch kind of logic, John has to admit. "Did you set a time frame on it?"

Harold stiffly nods. "Five years."

 _Five years_. Jesus. "You play a long game, Finch."

"It wasn't a game," Harold says, miserable. He visibly pulls himself back together. "The first goal was to see that you were well-matched to your new purpose, where I think you'll agree you exceeded all expectations."

The matter-of-fact praise pierces through John's lingering adrenaline high. The station's flickering lights seem harsh suddenly. John tightens his hands over the chair's armrests.

"The second," Harold says, oblivious to John’s reaction, "was to establish a friendship between the two of us. And I hope you'll agree this was also achieved?" He peers at John anxiously, like he's expecting an outright denial.

John motions at him to go on, still too dazed to speak.

"The third," and now Harold hesitates, looking at John. "The third goal is a social support net for you, independent of me. Achieving that was hard enough before our entanglement with Samaritan: I had half a mind to shelve the plan indefinitely.”

John’s attention zeroes on one word in there. “Had?” 

The look Harold gives him is fraught with indecision. “You did seem to find the experience…” he hesitates. “Enjoyable.”

John knows Harold, though, the cadence of his speech. “Try again. Give me what you were going to say before you changed your mind.”

He thinks Harold might draw himself up and refuse. Instead, Harold says, “As far as my admittedly limited observation allows…” John snorts pointedly, and Harold acknowledges it with a quirk of his mouth. “All right. It seemed to me you found the experience beneficial, although I’m far from an impartial observer.”

On instinct, John goes to his feet, circling Harold. “You do that a lot,” John says. “Question your own judgment.”

Harold’s jaw juts the tiniest bit forward. “I have to. I have immense responsibility. Immense power.”

They’re getting close to a turning point, John can feel it in his bones. “But not,” he breathes, “immense authority, to go with it.” Harold stares at him with wide eyes, not denying but not retreating, either. “Do you want that, Harold? Or was the collar just about proving yourself right?”

“Of course I wanted it,” Harold snaps. Then, in a softer voice, “Of course I want it. That doesn’t mean I should have it.”

“No.” On a whim, John slides to his knees in front of Harold, marking with pleasure the hungry way Harold’s gaze lingers over him. “That’s up to me, isn’t it? That’s what you said about the difference between Grace and Jessica. Jessica asked.” He dares to move closer. With Harold sitting, John only has to stretch up a little to brush his lips against Harold’s jaw. “I’m asking.”

“Not like this.” Harold’s expression is still full of doubts, but his hand finds its way to John’s nape, where it gently pets sensitive skin gone neglected for too long. “We need to discuss likes, dislikes, limits—”

“I don’t have any.” When Harold raises his eyebrows, John keeps talking. “Not ones you’ll cross. We might not have every last scenario covered, but you can tell I need help even when I’m not saying a word and you can’t see my face. You know how to make me feel good.” He pushes back into Harold’s hand. The demonstration almost renders him speechless: Harold’s fingers re-angle to touch John in a way calculated to make him melt. 

“This,” Harold says, “is incredibly risky.” John tamps down on his excitement. He knows that voice, the one Harold uses when he can’t help admitting John is right about some plan he finds distasteful.

“We both get shot at for a living,” John says. “Live a little while you can.” He moves in for a kiss.

Harold’s hold on his nape transforms into a grab. He shakes John, very gently, and sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

John finally lets out the grin he’s been suppressing. “You’re a genius, Harold. You’ll figure something out.”

~~

"So is this it?" John manages to ask later, on his back, naked but for the collar, ankles next to his ears. Harold wanted to see how flexible he was, and John is very happy to demonstrate, especially since it means Harold nailing his prostate on every thrust. "When do the whips and chains come out?"

The hand Harold wraps around his cock works to shut John up. Harold saying, "When I need them to make you submit, which I doubt is likely," is just overkill.

It makes John want to be contrary. He spends a whole minute of afterglow plotting ways to make Harold yank his leash (his currently metaphorical leash, and isn't that a pity?). 

Harold puts his warm hand on the back of John's neck. "Oh, my dearest," Harold says, impossibly tender, and John wouldn't just go in front of a shooting squad for this man; for Harold, John would watch his own cholesterol and make friends and do any inane thing he has to so Harold doesn't worry about him being unwell. 

Then Harold adds, thoughtfully, "If you wanted me to _make_ you submit, I'm sure we can think of ways."

There are too many things to name running through John, terror and elation and pain because his cock wants to get up again but it's too soon. He lets Harold pull him even closer, buries his face in Harold's chest, lets go of control and the air in his lungs and conscious thought. Harold has him. It's all going to be fine.


End file.
